


brush strokes and wildfires

by ImperialEvolution



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Fluff, Impied Asexual Character, M/M, POV Second Person, RIP, Relationship Study, reupload, they are In Love huh?, this is far softer than it has any right being
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:28:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialEvolution/pseuds/ImperialEvolution
Summary: He doesn’t want to be loved. God, why would he pick you if he wanted to be romanced?





	brush strokes and wildfires

He doesn’t want to be _loved_. God, why would he pick _you_ if he wanted to be romanced? You aren’t the kind of man to whisper pretty things on humbled knees or blunt your sharp tongue with compliments.

You called him gorgeous, once. You’ve thought it many times, held it back behind dryly amused smiles and eye rolls, shrugging on apathy like a second skin. You’ve confessed his beauty in leather-bound notebooks and in the fiery burning of your smoke filled dreams. And maybe your hands hum hymns into his skin late at night, trailing over the bridge between his hot metal forearm and cold muscled bicep. But you only once had the guts, the foolishness to say it to his face.

It took a second, just a second, to forget yourself and wrap your arms around his torso, press your face into his collarbones and whisper, “You’re gorgeous.”

You didn’t mean to. But here he is, perched on your kitchen counter like the insubordinate piece of shit he is, laughing at his own stupid _stupid_ joke and you’ve never for a second lost control, but he’s radiant and he’s beautiful and if you were a lesser man you’d worship him.

He stills underneath you, his hands finding their way to the small of your back. They’re cold and coarse against your skin. (He insists on getting under your clothing whenever you’re alone.)

So. You call him gorgeous, and he doesn’t say anything because what the fuck do you say to that?

But.

Really.

Other than that.

You aren’t soft with him. You don’t even know how to be soft. You can press him against a wall and let your hands wrap around his throat because you hate is snake guts (he has the audacity to _smile_ at you, you _hate him_ ), but you can’t, won’t, don’t show him you care.

So. You bring him home and you make him dinner and you don’t ever _talk_ , just make conversation. And he touches you. Like a magnet, he can’t not. It’s a hand on your shoulder or a thumb swiped across your knuckles or his thigh against yours as you sit side by side and watch whatever the fuck show he’s cajoled you into. You try not to doze off as the CSI flail around trying and failing to find the killer (much as they do in real life), but you’re so tired.

You wake up sometime later, your head resting atop his, blinking blearily. He’s tucked neatly into your side and your arm is numb where it lies, sandwiched between his shoulder blades and the couch. The show has long been finished, and Netflix asks impatiently if you’re still there.

You press your forehead against his for a second before you nudge him awake with the arm you’ve extracted from its prison.

“Jacobi,” you mumble against his temple. “Jacobi. Wakey wakey.”

His eyelashes flutter and he grumbles incoherently.

“What was that?”

He mutters some more, burrowing further into your shoulder. You can feel his smile pressed against your bicep, his lips chapped from being worried through his teeth. “Can I… Can I stay the night, sir?”

You hum, letting fatigue fudge your decisions. “You may as well.” You reshuffle yourself, your back pressed into the arm of the couch, guiding Jacobi into your lap. “You don’t have to call me that, Jacobi.”

“Okay.” He leans up to press a kiss into your jawline. “Can I call you Warren?”

You laugh. God, you haven’t heard anyone but Cutter call you that for a long time. “If you must.”

Jacobi makes a face. “Kepler, then.”

You smile as he continues to work kisses into your jaw, your hands dragging to his waist.

He brushes a thumb over your cheek, his eyes intent on the scar under your eye and the details of your complexion. He has no right to look at you like that, like you’re some kind of sculpture, some work of art to study and write novels about.

He knows you a damn sight better than anyone else in the world, he should know that you weren’t made by delicate brush strokes. You were chipped away at by fire and force, shaped like a well-kept blade, collecting nicks over time. He should know you are a thing of war.

Then why do you kiss his throat, instead of tearing it open, Clausewitz?

“So, what are we gonna do now that I’m staying?” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to your lips.

He’s not subtle. He never has been. He’s a man who knows what he wants and you’ll be damned if he knows how to get it. He’s a well-crafted switchblade; ready to unfold and strike terror the second you need him. He is a weapon whose sole purpose is whatever you need it to be. And right now you need him to anchor you.

You need him.

You need _him_.

There is nothing between you now. He’s still looking at you with that rose-tinted sheen, and he might just ruin you.  
Isn’t that want you wanted?

You press a kiss into his forehead before you can stop yourself. You trail kisses down his face and he laughs softly, squirming away. You grin and pull him closer.

“Fuck you, that tickles,” he mumbles as you kiss his neck.

You hum softly against his skin. “Sorry, I’ll stop.”

Jacobi growls from the back of his throat, his hands carding through your hair. “Don’t you _dare_.”

You pull away as you reach his collarbones and he makes a tiny noise of disappointment. There’s a moment, a beat, where you breathe together, his head bowed next to yours, your hands littering circles on his skin.

“You okay, Kepler?” he whispers, like the words hold something secret.

You’re fine. Well, as fine as you can be with your damn heart jackhammering in your chest. And as much as you love the feeling of his skin like a live wire against yours, as much as you love the little noises he makes, you’ve never wanted anything more than this. Just… this.

“Peachy.”

Jacobi retreats slightly, eyebrows raised. “Am I being too much?”

“Not at all.” And he’s not, it’s just… He’s too _good_ to you. Some ruined part of your monster heart wants to scold him for it, ruin him for treating you well.

You won’t.

You won’t.

“Okay…” He presses his lips against your forehead, his hands moving from their grasping position at your shirt to cup your jaw. He’s too good to you.

He always seems to know what you don’t say.

“Is this okay?” he breathes.

And god, look at him. Look at your fire soaked monster, he’s wonderful.

He hair falls softly into his eyes and your brush it away for him and your chest hurts, how did he do this to you?

“Yeah,” you whisper back, smiling. “This is okay.”

You kiss him slow because you can, because he lets you, because he’s _yours_ and the world shrinks to the millimetre of space between the two of you, clandestine and gentle.  
His moves his hands again, looping his arms over your shoulders and presses his grin into the side of your neck.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says absently.

And you swear to God you’ve never for a second lost control.

But.

_But._

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to my wonderful gf who is very supportive and who will most certainly call me a coward for not publishing her Jacobi/Kirby vore fanfic.  
> Hit me up on tumblr @imperial-evolution if you wanna call me a coward too.


End file.
